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Monday, September 27, 2010

Monday Poetry Stretch - Without Words

Dana Gioia wrote a poem that begins in this fashion.

Words

The world does not need words. It articulates itselfin sunlight, leaves, and shadows. The stones on the pathare no less real for lying uncatalogued and uncounted.The fluent leaves speak only the dialect of pure being.The kiss is still fully itself though no words were spoken.

How do objects or events express themselves without words? I'm not thinking of mask poems here but rather of poems that help us hear the thoughts and feelings of things that cannot speak. So, there's your challenge. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.

He was already not an objectbut became an event.The technician's wand rolledover the glazed dome of my bellyand someone flickered into view, someone who, according to the tech,was certainly a boy.

"Hello, Jasper." I greeted him, certainly, with our favored name;loud and clear, a soul's voice answered, "My name is not Jasper."

I looked around to see who else had heard--the tech? His other mother?His little sister, who had been there herself not so long ago?No--only I heard him speak so certainly,and silently called him Duncan,Donut out loud.

Those southpaw snippers never make the cut.They clip and slice as nice as any righty,But the fact remains they always ride the bench.There’s something of the mighty underdogAbout those unsung rookies overlookedBy every scout, and all they need is oneChop at the plate to prove beyond a doubtThey won’t strike out. Instead, they bide their timeWith grace, while righty fans sneer, sinister,And boo. How do the ambidextrous testTheir heft? Left out, left over, left alone,They still could split the team and field their own,Decide it scissors, paper, fist, or stone,The only just and right way to go left.

Those southpaw snippers never make the cut.They clip and slice as nice as any righty,But the fact remains they always ride the bench.There’s something of the mighty underdogAbout those unsung rookies overlookedBy every scout, and all they need is oneChop at the plate to prove beyond a doubtThey won’t strike out. Instead, they bide their timeWith grace, while righty fans sneer, sinister,And boo. How do the ambidextrous testTheir heft? Left out, left over, left alone,They still could split the team and field their own,Decide it scissors, paper, fist, or stone,The only just and right way left to go.

I am a fanof cool air, not celebrity,that siroccoof no talent.Mine is movement,a small clankingthat pushesgusts, tempers,temperatures,into the lower realms.You cannot seewhat I do,but you will feel it,that brief kissof cool,that momentwhen heatis one short letteraway from heart.

Hi, Tricia,Thanks for your email. Just want to confirm that I replied to it and hope it's coming through. Plus, feel free to delete these comments once we've connected! Thanks for your patience. Sylvia

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